This turned out to be a fine day. It has been a testimony to the redemptive power of recreational drugs. It didn’t hurt that the wind was behind us, the skies were clear, and the air was warm, but not hot.
We usually take state Rt. 154 south of Middletown. The GPS suggested another route that looked like it avoided some hills (I’m not sure this was an accurate assessment on my part), at the cost of being a bit longer, but certainly avoiding traffic. The picture shows a sight that will bring tears of joy to any cyclist, a shady descent, where the highway engineers have not felled “those aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun”.
We rejoined 154 in time to find the Pilot House, where I took in some excellent Toasted Almond ice cream made by a creamery in Old Lyme.
I was not disappointed that the distance from Cromwell to Old Saybrook was 35 miles, not the 40 that Google had lead me to expect. Maybe we could have made it all the way to Mystic, but I am glad not to have put it to the test. As a bonus for not going to the limit (thus God rewards all slackers), we ended the day close enough to Clinton that we received an invitation from Joe for dinner and homemade lasagne.
Tomorrow we head for Mystic, which is either 20 or 40 miles, depending on whom you ask. The day after that we’ll arrive at Galilee, RI, where we get the ferry to Block Island.
Finally, as I promised, that jar.
How do I know that this is a picture of that jar? I read it on the Internet.